Variations
by The Omniscient Bookseller
Summary: Variations on a SpotRace theme. Rated for slash, sex, rape, and language. Written for Gothic Author.


ETA Author's Note: several people expressed confusion about this fic. Looking back on it I can see why, so here's a brief explanation of what I was trying to do. It's not meant to be one sequential story, but five different takes on a single scenario.

Here's how I think of it: first, imagine two parallel sliding scales, labeled "love" on the left and "indifference" on the right. On the first scale put a marker called "Race" on "indifference". On the second scale put a marker called "Spot" on "love". Push both markers toward each other. Freezeframe five times. Apply to the following idea:Spot and Race have sex in an alley.

_one_

You don't say no to Spot Conlon, not if you want to live. It's a lesson everyone learns. The only choice is when you learn it; the options are either early or too late. It's why Racetrack always drops his evening plans whenever the message comes that Spot wants a visit, although "visit" really means fuck in some nameless hell of an alley. Spot doesn't hurt him (usually), but it's still horrible.

The winter is worst. The icy wind tears at his exposed body and the brick wall he braces himself against drips freezing slush into a puddle by his feet. He knows that wall intimately, can see it in perfect detail when he closes his eyes. He has a habit of counting the cracks in the brick while Spot takes what he wants. Every time he reaches fifteen he moans or curses or pushing himself back, wincing, onto Spot's cock.

You just don't say no to Spot Conlon. He's terrifying. It isn't the slingshot; the slingshot is just an unbelievably arrogant mindfuck. The only reason he gets away with using it is because of the things he can do without it. Besides, one whistle would bring at least four of Spot's boys down on them so fast he'd probably die with his pants still around his ankles.

Race isn't sure if Spot actually cares whether he enjoys it, but it's not something he wants to risk, so he forces himself to make the noises and the movements. It makes him feel like a whore, except the only thing he gets in exchange is tomorrow.

_two_

The problem is that it takes Racetrack too long to realize that Spot is in love with him. It begins with friendship- a strong friendship, but a strange one. Race likes Spot because he's wickedly intelligent, because he wears a layer of tension under his skin, because he practically exhales charisma. Spot returns his regard because of Racetrack's humor. He loves that Race is never too afraid to answer back, that he will poke fun at Spot as readily as he will at anyone else. It's a dangerous line he walks, always pushing the boundary between funny and insulting. It takes courage and nerves and quick thinking, all of which Spot recognizes and respects.

Eventually their friendship evolves into something that involves rather more of Spot backing Race up against the alley wall, lips at his neck and hands at his waistband. Race doesn't mind at all. They're friends, and besides, Spot's a damn good fuck. It takes him a long time to realize that it's more than just a casual arrangement for Spot, mostly because there are no obvious signs. There's something in the way Spot holds him, though- not like you hold a girl, holding with his hands grasping Racetrack's face, clutching at his hips- holds him like Racetrack is his salvation.

The worst part is that there's nothing he can do about it once he realizes. Their friendship is already balanced on a knife's edge, ready to tilt the moment one joke goes too far. Race doesn't have to be told that he's playing a different game now. He's deathly sure that the consequences of toying with Spot's heart are far, far worse than the consequences of toying with his pride. It's too late to turn back, though, so he just holds on and hopes that if he pretends long enough, hard enough, he can trick himself into falling in love.

_three_

There isn't exactly any tenderness between them. Partially it's because they don't have the time or the place. They have to be wary and quick. Even Spot's reputation probably won't help if they're caught. Besides, they're teenaged boys. Their encounters mostly consist of ricocheting from wall to wall of the nearest convenient alley, panting and gasping and tearing at each other's clothes.

They do achieve something- it's not tenderness, but it's as close as either of them need to get. It happens afterward, when they take a few minutes to sit together. Spot can afford not to sell, what with the cuts he gets from the younger boys and the bribes and the petty thieving that are somehow an unmentioned part of his domain. Race can't always afford it, but there are days when he can and days when he can't but does anyway. He has no prideful illusions, would take charity if it was given, but it never is. The only thing Spot offers him is a cigarette. He takes it every time, a ritual. He thinks it may be Spot's bizarre, unspoken way of apologizing for his refusal to bottom (which isn't to say Spot is in control or always takes the lead. In fact, they function perfectly as equals except for the fact that Spot absolutely will not let Racetrack fuck him).

It's in those minutes that Spot's eyes gentle and his shoulders drop. Sometimes he steals the cigarette and leans in to capture the smoke from Racetrack's mouth before giving it back. Sometimes Race talks about everything and nothing, the way he can while his mind is occupied by something else altogether. Mostly, though, they just sit, two boys thinking about the warmth where their thighs press together and the taste of a shared cigarette.

_four_

It's not manipulation. It's more like a deal, Race thinks (justifies), a deal where Race gives Spot what he wants in return for Spot giving Race what _he_ wants. It's just that Spot isn't exactly aware of the arrangement. He's probably happier that way. He doesn't think he's being manipulated- he isn't- he just assumes that what he sees is the truth. It isn't. It's an act. A beautiful, polished, convincing act, but an act nonetheless.

When they fuck it gets rough. Racetrack spits and snarks and sneers and goads Spot into a fight every time. Some days Spot wins and Race chokes on his own words, goes silent and breaks out the other side of silence again. Some days Race wins and keeps his control even as he comes. The struggle goes back and forth, back and forth, balanced, and Spot never knows it's an act. He never sees that through it all the only thing Racetrack wants to do is give in and beg with words and eyes and body (beg for what, he doesn't know. Beg for Spot to keep going, or to stay the night, or to care).

Spot would get off on it, too. The control, the ego trip- anyone with eyes could see that he'd love it. It would be a one time deal, though. He gets surrender every day. What he needs, what keeps him coming back, is the mockery, the challenge that he can fight and break. Racetrack knows this. He knows it with the surety of someone who has dedicated his life to knowing another person because that intimate knowledge is the only thing he is allowed, the only thing he can take when nothing is given.

The act is necessary. He knows that but it doesn't make it any easier to laugh when the only thing he wants is to collapse against the wall and say, _please_.

_five_

In all the years Race is in love with Spot, they only fuck once. It takes months of planning. The first thing to do is get Spot drunk, which is easy. The second is to get him angry, which is easier. The third thing is the secret ingredient, the tipping of the balance that will make Spot fuck him instead of fight him. He gets that part wrong twice before he gets it right and is beaten to a pulp both times, but he doesn't mind. It's all part of the game. Racetrack is, all evidence to the contrary, a very good gambler. He's good at the science of it, knows what to risk and when to risk it. The only bad choices he makes are in deciding what to gamble on.

After all the years, all the calculations and the planning and the expectations, it's the worst experience of his life. Spot is drunk and violent and furious and doesn't care what he's doing at all. Race never expected to be more frightened getting fucked than he was getting beaten, but that's what happens. He feels as though he's baited a wild animal to the point of madness. It hurts in every way he's ever imagined hurting, and all he wants to do is get away.

Afterward his palms are scraped raw from the brick. There are bloodstains on his pants and he rolls them in mud to cover it up so the others won't ask questions. It hurts to sit and stand and walk, his hands are infected, his throat burns and scratches although he can't remember screaming or crying or making any sound at all, for that matter. He can smell sex and mold and garbage on his clothes for weeks, although no one else mentions it. He doesn't sleep for three days. Spot never acknowledges anything.

Out of all of it, though, out of the pain and the terror and the humiliation, the thing that keeps him up at night, nauseated, is that he still wants it to happen again.


End file.
